大象传媒

After experiencing the flight from Dunkirk in 1940 my father was posted to another artillery regiment, the 137th Field which was originally based in Blackpool. Little did he realise that this was going to be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The summer of 1941 was spent at Larkhill Camp near Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain. Months of training went by and finally orders came through to travel to Liverpool and board the Dominion Monarch. This was a former luxury cruise liner fitted out as a troop carrier. She sailed on 22nd September 1941, destination unknown. They made a brief stop in Cape Town, South Africa. No sooner had my dad rejoined the ship with his mates when he again came down with terrible stomach pains. The ship鈥檚 medical staff soon diagnosed appendicitis and operated on board without delay. In more ways than one this was terrible bad luck. Had the symptoms occurred one day earlier then my dad would have been allowed to stay for a while in Cape Town to recuperate. It is quite possible that his destination might have been switched to elsewhere, possibly Australia. Instead he sailed on with his regiment to the impending nightmare waiting at Singapore.

Deemed not fit enough to be sent up country with the regiment to Kajang my father remained in Singapore. He was spared the disaster of the impending campaign to stop the invading Japanese. However there was no escaping the surrender in February 1942 and the horrors that followed.

Like thousands of other prisoners my father was put to work on the infamous 鈥淏irma railway鈥�, often referred to as 鈥淒eath Railway鈥�. The work was hard often using primitive tools or bare hands and they received very little food. Often the ration was just boiled rice, twice a day. Very soon men became ill with the effects of malnutrition, heat, exhaustion, tropical diseases and ill treatment. The Japanese considered the prisoners to be 鈥渨ithout honour鈥� because they had surrendered and not chosen death. They were accordingly treated worse than animals. One day a Jap officer offered my father a cigarette. Surprised by this unexpected kindness my dad quickly lit up. Suddenly the jap tore the cigarette from his mouth and proceeded to beat him without mercy. To fight back would have meant certain death, you just had to take it. You never knew where you were with these cruel captors.

As time went by more and more men were taken ill from a myriad of diseases most common of which was Malaria. My father also succumbed to Malaria. Thankfully there was a little quinine to be had at that time and he managed to fight it off enough to resume work on the railway.

While he was laid up in the sickbay ( a simple hut where those who couldn鈥檛 work were dumped ) he became friendly with a fellow Welshman from Pontypridd, named Ben Silk. Ben loved to smoke his pipe though there was little or no tobacco to be had. Ben had been knocked for six by Malaria and was very weak. My father decided, after he was fit enough to leave his sickbed, to scrounge some real tobacco for Ben. He heard the Dutch contingent had some tobacco and bartered some belongings for a small pouch of the stuff.

After his day鈥檚 work on the line my father went to visit Ben and cheer him up with the tobacco. Ben was nowhere to be found. He asked where he was and was told that Ben had died the night before. These incidents were commonplace and it is no wonder that many of the men were reduced to utter despair.

It鈥檚 a wonder that anyone survived the Birma Railroad. The worst casualties occurred among Asian workers who had been tricked into working on the railway with promises of good wages and conditions. Believing this many even took their families with them ! Whole camps of them were decimated by disease. My father had heard rumours that sometimes these 鈥渃amps of the dead鈥� were set on fire because there was not enough manpower or inclination to give them a proper burial. On the line they were also dying like flies and sometimes they were simply buried under the railway embankments.

My father was allowed to send two postcards home in the three and a half years of his captivity. The first to arrive was a joy for his family who by now feared he was dead. Here is a photo of the message. Afraid the censors would stop any cards that gave an indication of the truth and not wanting to worry the family my father lied about his predicament. His health like most of his comrades was poor and he received nothing in pay for his labours. At six feet one inch my father normally weighed around 12 stones 鈥� he was now a bag of bones at around nine stones.

One day my Father was sent into the nearby jungle with two other men to forage. Suddenly they came face to face with a tiger. The men looked at each other as if to say 鈥渨e can鈥檛 all be hallucinating about the same thing, so this is real鈥�. The tiger looked long and hard then turned around and made off without hurrying. One of the men mumbled 鈥渙bviously not enough meat on the three of us for a decent Tiger lunch鈥� and just carried on. Lots of prisoners were simply beyond caring.

Once I asked my father how he managed to keep his spirits up. 鈥淲ell鈥� he replied 鈥淚 kept on thinking of my family and home, and how I must see Wales again. I would lay on my hard bunk at night and close my eyes and try to block out the hell around me. I would imagine myself walking along Gypsy Lane on a fine spring day. The birds would be singing sweetly, I would sit next to the bubbling brook that flowed halfway down the lane and I would be at peace with myself and the world鈥�.

Every time I walk along Gypsy Lane, which is a local beauty spot in Caerphilly I never forget my father鈥檚 words.

When the railway was finally finished a Jap general came and gave a speech to the prisoners. He even gave them a day off and later on the first and only Red cross parcels my father saw were divided among the men. Two men to one parcel. Some of the contents were too rich for men starved for over a year and they became sick as dogs.

There followed a period of internment at Nong Pladuk camp, helping to maintain the adjacent railway. The allies had long realised what the Japanese had built and were quickly sending in planes to destroy the line. One night a large bombing raid started and my father and his mates were caught in the middle of it. My father described to me how men ran from their huts but there was nowhere to go. When the bombs started to fall his experience in France came to the fore and he hit the deck grabbing a man next to him. Sadly a lot of men ran into the path of the bombs and not away from them. By a cruel twist of fate the Japanese huts were not hit and they took next to no casualties. Almost a hundred prisoners were killed.

The next day the prisoners were ordered out of the camp to help clean up the huge damage from the night before. Apparently there was a troop train in the sidings near the camp which also had civilians on board. This train had taken direct hits. My father told me how he suddenly noticed a woman鈥檚 hand lying on the ground; too elegant to be that of a man. He remembered thinking 鈥渨here do we start in this mess ? 鈥�

Thinking they needed manpower elsewhere the Japanese decided to ship prisoners to other places, including Japan itself. My father was taken back to Singapore and then shipped out on an old Dutch cargo boat at the end of 1944. There were about 5 ships in the convoy and conditions were atrocious. The men were packed in the holds like cattle. The guards were aware how desperate things were but responded even more harshly than usual, probably worried the prisoners might rise up. My father remembers how they caught a young fellow stealing some food and decided to make an example of him. All who were on deck at the time, including my father, were forced to witness his execution. They cut the man鈥檚 head off with a sword and threw his body overboard.

This misery lasted for five days and then their destination was clear 鈥� Saigon in French Indo China. What today is called Vietnam.

They were then put to work on the docks, unloading cargo of all kinds, mostly oil, to be stored in nearby warehouses. Though rations improved somewhat my father remembers being hungry all the time. Being in the docks he and his mates were always on the lookout for food. One day a load of copra was taken off a boat. Hoping it was edible they tried some, risking the wrath of their guards. It was horrible and they quickly spat it out.

There were frequent air raids by American planes and a lot of prisoners were killed in the raids. Perhaps the Japs thought they were losing too many useful workers, because again there was a move, up country to help build airstrips. No sooner was a strip finished, then came American bombers to destroy it. This went on for months. One memorable move my father recalls was to Da Lat by cog railway. Here it was cooler than on the coast especially in the nights and the vegetation was lush. He remembers discovering mushrooms in the forest, which made a welcome change with the daily rice ration. Even the locals were different 鈥� tribes the French colonists called Moi.

With air raids becoming more and more common the prisoners realised the allies were on the upper hand. The Japs too were getting worried, but dashed any hopes the men had of liberation by constantly reminding them they would be killed en masse if the allies got too near.

Before the war was over and with the airfields finished, my father was sent back once again to Saigon. He was billeted near the French Barracks of the Foreign Legion, and for the first time in three years had a proper roof over his head. One day he struck up a conversation with a Legionair who turned out to be a Scotsman. Asking why he had joined the Legion the man harshly replied 鈥淣one of your business Taff !鈥�. He obviously had something in his past he wanted to hide.

Towards the end of hostilities the Japanese guards became markedly more lenient towards the prisoners. My father remembers that he and his mates even ventured out in the evenings to try and find supplies. My father, whose 鈥渨ardrobe鈥� consisted of little more than a 鈥渏ap happy鈥� or loincloth and old rag of a shirt, managed to scrounge some new clothes. He found some Jap boots, white socks, a pair of shorts and a white shirt. Strutting about Saigon in his new outfit with his mates my Father began to feel a tinge of normality.

Some of the men became even bolder. One chap my father remembers had struck up a 鈥渇riendship鈥� with a French woman who had apparently stayed in the city after the French civilians had been forced to leave. One day he came in dressed very smartly to gather up his belongings and said he鈥檇 be 鈥渒eeping in touch鈥�. That was the last they saw of him.

On one evening鈥檚 jaunt my father and a few of the men went into a cafe for a drink. They had scrounged a few Piasters and sat down to sample the local firewater. A Vietnamese man with a confident air about him asked my Father in perfect English 鈥淲hat do you think of the French ?鈥�. My father realised he needed to mark his words as the cafe was probably full of budding nationalist revolutionaries. 鈥淣ot a lot鈥� he replied 鈥淲hy鈥� ?. 鈥淲ell鈥� said the man 鈥淲e鈥檒l have them out you know. Oh yes we鈥檒l get them out !鈥�. It was obvious that these men could see the end of the war coming and were biding their time to grab their independence. Not long after serious incidents and rioting did occur targeting the French.

Then came the day when the planes dropped leaflets saying "THE JAPANESE HAVE SURRENDERED, YOU ARE ALL FREE MEN." It was a momentous occasion for the long-suffering POWs.

It was such a joy to my father to finally board a ship that would take him home again to Wales. Stepping onto the S.S. Ormonde was like stepping into a dream. Good food and comfort and the feeling that you were safe; he had finally made it.

Aftermath

Of course it was wonderful to be home again, it was nice to receive a letter from the King, a lovely gesture. But things were not the same. How could they be after such an ordeal ?

Unfortunately, my father鈥檚 mind and body had been abused for so long that he was in and out of hospitals and convalescent homes for many months. There were operations on his stomach and seemingly unending treatments after the rigours of tropical diseases. Because of this he was not yet demobbed from the army.

Thank heavens there were periods of leave to visit home. On one such leave my father went to a local pub to have a drink with friends. In those days it was quite common for people to strike up a song to entertain others. My father also liked to sing and started up a haunting tune. The pub went quiet and clapped when he had finished the song. A young woman with dark hair sitting nearby said 鈥淭hat was lovely, but don鈥檛 you know any happy songs?鈥�. 鈥淥h yes鈥� my father replied 鈥淏ut I have a lot on my mind right now鈥�. 鈥淪uch as ? the young woman prompted. 鈥淥h it鈥檚 a long story, but that will keep鈥� my father countered. Three months later they were married.

According to my father my mother helped him more than any doctor or psychiatrist. They raised four sons together and despite life鈥檚 difficulties he is convinced this helped to keep him sane.

On January 25th 1947, 7 years and 195 days after the call to duty in those days of innocence back in the summer of 1939, my father was finally discharged from the army. On his discharge certificate they got his middle name wrong 鈥淛ames鈥� instead of 鈥淛ohn鈥�. 鈥淲ho cares鈥� he thought.

And thus ended a long hard journey for my father. A journey he was lucky to survive to tell his tale.

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